


Turn Your Camera On

by malevolosidade



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolosidade/pseuds/malevolosidade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenson is given a unique opportunity to peer into Mark and his intimacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Your Camera On

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as part of the Secret Santa @ livejournal's F1 Slash community, title inspired on Spoon's song I Turn My Camera On. Also, this is my first time posting here, hopefully the formatting isn't too screwed up.

Mark is sprawled on a bed and looking up at you.  
  
At least you like to imagine it’s on a bed cover or something of the sort that he is lying on. Not that it matters a lot, it’s not that important of a detail, but you like the way his skin looks in contrast to it: deliciously pale against a pitch black background. He winks at you with one eye, his lips contorted into an inviting smile that makes your stomach lurch every time you look at it. One shoulder is slightly raised; one hand lazily rests just below his rib cage, the other arm is raised, as he is evidently taking this photo himself. You watch everything intently; every inch of firm flesh, every tiny spot scattered across stomach and navel, each curve and angle; you can almost imagine his hand moving further down in an achingly slow manner, but you decide to divert your thoughts.  
  
You prefer to imagine yourself at that vantage point.  
  
You imagine yourself on top of him, sliding your own hands down his chest, teasing a nipple here, nuzzling and kissing his rib cage there, taking your time in finding, in discovering. You imagine hands on your hair pushing you down; he wants it too. He needs it too. You have waited long enough to find out what the pictures have yet to show you; you have waited long enough to find out whether your imagination has done a good job all those months. The time has come, you imagine, and then you realize it’s actually true.  
  
You turn the photo around.  
  
 _Next Friday, my room, 10pm. There will be a keycard on the front desk._  
  
That was delivered to you in Austin. You are now in São Paulo, and the time has indeed come.  
  
 _Tonight_ , you tell yourself.  _Tonight._  
  


***

  
It simply happened; you never denied your attraction to him, be it to yourself or otherwise, and he never made his own feelings regarding yourself a secret, either. You have known each other for years, and while it might not have been something evident from the beginning, each and every interaction of yours already had the faintest hint of what was to come. It was only a matter of time, you both knew. Whenever F1-related commitments weren’t enough to put one across the other, the two of you would come up with excuses to be around each other.  
  
It did not matter when or where or how; you’d find yourselves side by side on tall, mahogany stools in hotel bars scattered around the world, chattering about whatever came to mind. Anyone else would find it odd to see two rivals side by side, drinking, exchanging camaraderies. You were never really rivals to begin with, at least in your eyes, and most certainly you are none outside the track. He was the one who incited you to get into triathlons as a way to keep fit; you were the one who motivated him to bring back the Pure Tasmania Challenge. That was the way things worked for you both: you found an understanding in these exchanges, and as they deepened, so much more came along with it until it was no longer a mere matter of pure attraction; it was something else, something you hesitated to put a name to at first for fear of having misunderstood everything.  
  
Later, you’d realize that month after month, your minds aligned even in regards to that.  
  
Time passed, stories were shared, secrets were kept.  
  
You’d then realize he would take the first step; it was only fitting, knowing him as well as you do.  
  
One morning, early in the season, he does.  
  


***

  
The photos were delivered to you slowly, tantalizingly so, almost as if Mark wanted them to be handed in such a manner you would become more and more curious as time passed; he knows you far too well. You became more curious, that’s for sure; but that’s not the only thing you became. It was a puzzle; a puzzle made of what you wanted, of what you dreamed of, of what you desired. Because of that, there was much more to it than mere curiosity; there was a sense of amazement, of intense need, of something so primal you would not be able to explain to anybody else. You wondered at the beginning if Mark himself was taking those photos or when they were taken; as the weekends turned about, it no longer mattered.  
  
What mattered were the photos.  
  
What mattered were the message they sent out.  
  
They were always delivered in nondescript white envelopes, once every race weekend, twice if Mark was feeling particularly generous, you reckon. Its only markings were your name scribbled across the front in his unmistakable handwriting; you were thankful the ones delivered to the garages or to your motorhome never drew undesired attention from anybody else. You’d have a hard time explaining what they were and why they were there; perhaps you would not even be able to actually muster any kind of explanation. They are that much of a distraction to you; they are that much of a mystery to you.  
  
You carry all of them when you travel, hidden between clothes and folders in a battered white envelope; you have long admitted to yourself they have become your most valuable companion this year. You lock yourself in your designated hotel room for the weekend at night; soon, they are scattered everywhere: on the floor, on the bed, on the nightstand. Soon, you are all over them, selecting favorites, moving them around in an attempt to find how they best fit together, studying them intently.  
  
Studying, memorizing, reminiscing what you don’t have yet.  
  
There are photos of his arms, lazily stretched over the dark background present here and in some of the others; there is a photo of his hands, palms facing up, fingers gently curled. There is a photo of his legs; there is a photo of his shoulder blades, wide and strong, there is a close-up of his stubbled jaw and throat here, there is half his face, tongue hungrily swiping his lips there, there are his eyes, staring down at you so inscrutably it’s almost as if he was right there. There is a picture of his naked left hip and part of his waist, and you can’t help but to further wonder what’s been denied to you thus far. There is a photo of his back, all sinewy muscles and gloriously bare skin for anyone who wishes to see it, but you know this is all for you, this is for your eyes only, it’s just between you and him.  
  
In a way, he gives you a window to peer into himself and his intimacy, and to get such a stark look into it is bewildering. You are not even taking into account the depth of the feelings you harbor for him, which you know to be profound, but the simple fact that he has chosen such an unique way to open himself to you is strikingly new; you admit to yourself you were not sure how to handle it at first.  
  
You consider asking him what it was about, when the first photos appeared; you soon realized it would be to no avail. Even if you asked, he would not answer, and even if he did, it would not be the answer you expected. That’s why you settled into figuring out the puzzle instead, that’s why you pour yourself over them night after night, that’s why you develop a world of reveries that you stash away about as well as the photos themselves, that’s why you allow yourself to be swept up in this charade. You want the answer, even if intimately, you already know it.  
  
You already know it, and you wait day after day for him to acknowledge it as well.  
  
The last photo is the one with the instruction, and when it arrives, you do not suppress a smile.

_It’s about damn time._

***

 

_Tonight_ , you repeat to yourself.  _Tonight._  
  
It has become a mantra of sorts, that repetition of how much time there is still left until you two meet again. You repeat it over and over in an attempt to keep your mind occupied, but to no avail; repeating it only reminds you of the photos, of your fantasies and whatever expectations regarding what is to happen. Repeating it only makes your stomach churn and your heart race, not unlike the feeling that overcomes you every time you are inside the car, and repeating it inevitably brings a smile to your lips.  
  
You don’t quite know what to expect, and that excites you.  
  
Clutching the keycard in your hand, you take a deep breath - you’re certainly not lacking in resolve, but you feel as if you need just that final push ahead - and slide it in. A little green light blinks, the door is unlocked with a dry sound, and the door handle somehow seems colder than you expected. You come in; you tell yourself you’re not nervous, but that’s not entirely true. There is a bit of tension coiling around your shoulders, there is a bit of fearful anxiety as you move forward, slowly, elegantly falling into the unknown, falling into the intimate atmosphere of the room.  
  
“There you are.”  
  
Mark stands at the opposite corner from you; there’s the bed between the two of you, and you recognize the pitch black background of many of the photos on it; it was a bed cover, after all. Your attention quickly moves to the other man, however; he looks so sure of himself, so confident that you can feel it in yourself as well. You know far too well you can trust him; you always could. This time is no different; this time, you are both sure of what you want from each other.  
  
A shiver of anticipation curls down your spine.  
  
“I have it in good confidence that you have received all of my photos.”  
  
You nod. He’s straight to the point, taking the first step, as you became so used to, as you would not have any other way.  
  
“Sit down.” He points at the bed. His tone is not commanding, but still determined, strong willed enough to ensure that what he wants will be followed through. You hide a smile as you do as he says; he knows. He knows you’d do anything - anything - he asked. He knows he has you wrapped around his finger; he knows you’re entirely his, that you’ve waited for this night, that he has been a major part of your fantasies for a while now. He is fully aware of the power he has had and still has over you, and he will not miss the opportunity of getting what he wants. “Did you enjoy the photos, Jenson?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
It comes out a little too strangled, a little too uneasy, not exactly how you hoped to sound, but he doesn’t seem fazed; quite the contrary, actually. You feel the mattress bucking down; the shiver that runs down your spine and straightens your posture when he approaches you and his breath grazes the back of your neck is nearly maddening. You breathe deeply again; this time, it doesn’t work at all.  
  
“Tell me how much you enjoyed them.”  
  
You close your eyes.  
  
“ _God_ , Mark.”  
  
“ _Tell me._ ”  
  
One of his hands has found its way underneath your polo shirt. His touch is featherlight and warm, almost as if not there at all, almost as if an afterthought. You hear him breathing; he is impossibly close to you now, waiting for your answer, waiting for an answer you are having trouble coming up with because your focus is hardly there, slowly but surely vanishing with each careful stroke of hand.  
  
“I thought about you all the time.”  
  
His other hand follows suit, disappears underneath your clothing, hovers dangerously close to your waistband. He’s good with provocation, you decide. You already knew that in regards to the track, to the racing, to everything else; this is just confirmation.  
  
“Hmm. That’s all you did. You just thought about me.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“I know it’s not.” He pauses. You whimper when his hands cut off their caressing to circle around your wrists; you can almost feel the smile spreading across his face. “Tell me what you did.”  
  
You move ever so slightly at the remembrance as he holds you in place, his voice matter-of-fact; he might have an idea of what you did and how you did it; it’s merely a consequence of the message hidden in the photos all along. Now, he wants the confirmation. He wants the details. He wants the dirty thoughts. He has already claimed all that there was of you long ago; now he wants the very few things that still remain.  
  
“I looked at your pictures. Every night.” You pause. “I carried them everywhere.”  
  
“Go on.”  
  
“Strewn them around the hotel room.”  
  
“Did they turn you on?”  
  
You can only nod.  
  
“Did you get off while looking at them?”  
  
Were he not behind you, you’d have shifted and writhed; were he not whispering in the hollow of your ear, all warm and raspy, and nothing that had unfolded so far had happened, you know exactly where your imagination would lead you through. Then again, if it weren’t so, you would not be having a taste of reality as you have craved for so long, nor would all of your control be seeping away with each passing moment.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Show me.”  
  
“Show _you_?”  
  
“Yes. I want to see it. I want to see  _you_.” He lets go of your wrists and moves away from you; you feel the slight dislocation of air as he moves and you shudder, but you are fully aware that’s not the reason why it happened. Only after Mark has shifted himself to your side do you notice he is holding a camera; only then you realize what he is about to do and what he actually _expects_  you to do. You look down for a second, catching your breath, gathering your courage. You feel his eyes on you; you feel as if every inch of your body is burning already.  
  
“Come on, Jense.”  
  
His voice is barely a murmur now. His hand comes back to your waistband, caressing, touching, encouraging. He wants it, you tell yourself, as you unbutton your jeans; he is looking forward to watching you, you continue, unzipping your fly and tossing your shoes to a corner before you lift your hips off the mattress to lower your trousers. You freeze when his hands hold yours in place; your eyes meet and damn, there’s that shiver running down your spine again. He does the job of removing them for you, tugging down slowly, taking his time, getting a good look at your legs, at your thighs, at your cock.  
  
He’s not in a rush; neither are you.  
  
You finally realize the obvious.  
  
Tonight, he is about as much of a discoverer as you are.  
  
He discards your trousers and your underwear, tosses them carelessly to the side; he is now kneeling right in front of you, watching carefully as you choose to already remove your shirt. You figure if he wants to watch, then he gets to watch everything; if he is undertaking discoveries of his own, then he gets to discover every single thing he desires to. He reaches up, moves his body forward and cups your face with one hand, his lips briefly brushing against yours; you hear the faint beeping of the camera being turned on.  
  
“Do it.”  
  
He moves back to get a better view of you, remaining on his knees and just outside your open legs. He gives you a look full of such wanton expectation you feel your heart sinking; you realize you are actually naked before him, as you have never been before; you are completely exposed, and yet you can only feel a kind of pooling warmth in the pit of your stomach. You comfortably wrap a hand around your cock; you’re half-hard already, and you’re not entirely surprised by this. You look at him one last time, as if you needed final confirmation; he raises the camera.  
  
You get started.  
  
Your hand moves slowly, up and down, as your eyes flutter close. You hear a faint snap; he’s taken a photo of you. You can’t help but wonder how it turned out to be, but the thought quickly dissipates, replaced by the photos you had grown so used to. A whimper falls out of your open mouth as you remind yourself of all the fantasies you created over the year; photos of hands you imagined running all over your body, photos of eyes you have on you now, photos of a torso you wished to kiss all over. Photos of a body you lusted deeply after; photos of a body you needed to claim for yourself.  
  
There’s another snap of the camera; you’ve just thumbed your head to spread a bit of pre-come across your cock to reduce the friction. You do it once again; a smile creeps up to your lips. He’s watching you. He’s savoring the moment. He’s looking at you pleasuring yourself based on what he has given to you so far; there is a third and a fourth snap of the camera in quick succession. He is not only savoring the moment, he is making sure to register everything for himself.  
  
Your movements are deliberate enough; you don’t want this to be over too soon. You like to feel his eyes on you, his intent observation of your movement, the sound of each click of the camera; you never imagined something that seemed so simple would turn you on as much as it does. Your imagination is running even wilder than before; just as you begin to wonder whether he used the same kind of stimulation after taking his own photos, if Mark thought you would pleasure yourself with his pictures and if it turned him on as well, you feel hands on your knees.  
  
Mark has put himself between your legs, fingertips prising them further open from the back of your thighs; you look down, into his eyes, sinking into the lust you see reflected on them. There is no coming back now, you are both aware of that. He moves up again, crushing his lips onto yours in such a feverish way that you cannot help but moan loudly into his mouth; as if you were not aroused enough by then, your senses are now overwhelmed by getting a taste of something you had desired for so long. You think you hear another snap just as he bites your lower lip; you thrust yourself forward, unleashed, but his hands hold you in place. You stare at him, wanting another kiss, wanting more; he smiles at you.  
  
“Let me help you with that.”  
  
You barely have the time to react to his statement before he dives back down, leaving a trail of delicate kisses onto your stomach, grazing his stubble against the inside of your thighs; he thrusts the camera into your free hand and, while momentarily confused, you cannot possibly think of a way to react accordingly other than crying out his name when there is a sudden, warm, deliciously wet pressure around your cock. A shudder rocks you to the core and you half-lift your hips in response; he is lapping at your balls, then moves back to licking your entire length. You don’t care that you’re groaning loudly; you just wrap fingers around jet black hair and he responds by taking small licks across the head. Your hips buck forward but his strong arms hold you in place, and then you remember you have the camera now.  
  
It’s your turn to snap a photo.  
  
He moans onto your cock at the exact moment the flash light washes over your bodies; you love both the vibration that causes and the realization that if it arouses you, the effect it has on him is devastating. You look down, decided to make him do that again, only to realize he somehow undid the button and the fly of his trousers in the meantime; he lets go of your thighs and you watch, through heavy eyelids, as one of his hands begins stroking his cock over the white cotton of his boxers.  _Fuck_ , you think, because he’s still massaging the underside of your cock as well, and then  _fuck_ , you say out loud, because he is touching himself right in front of you and it’s getting increasingly difficult to remain in control of anything with such a sight.  
  
“Mark, I- I- I-”  
  
He licks you one last time before pulling away; you immediately skitter up to the bed, gasping for air while he hastily makes away with shirt and trousers and everything superfluous in that moment. The camera is still in your hands; you are quick to catch him as he saunters towards you, and then as he is upon you; it’s not your best shot, he’s certainly far more experienced in that, but focus is the least of your worries now that your bodies are at last in full contact. It feels like your skin comes alive when he touches you; it’s quite a sensation when he grinds onto you while your fingers rake down his back.  
  
You want to touch him, you want to know what sets him off; it’s a pity, but you have to discard the camera. You have to admit to yourself you enjoyed every moment of having it in your hands, of finally finding out and sharing what he had felt all along, of taking his place and taking photos of the two of you lost in such abandon. You hear him groan, maybe in disagreement, but you mentally apologize, whether it was the case or not. You had only your imagination to fill in the blanks until now, and you find reality far more satisfying than everything you had come up with before.  
  
There is still more to discover, though.  
  
There is barely enough space left between your bodies, but still, your hands find their way around, feeling the soft skin you’ve yearned under your fingertips, caressing his torso, tickling his navel, wrapping a firm hand around his cock. When you stroke him, he moans into your ear, low, intimate; yes, he’s craved for your touch as well, if not more than you. He pushes down into your hand and you let go, but only because the friction resulting from your cocks roughly rubbing together sends you both whimpering in unison. He props himself on his forearms for an instant, moves up to kiss you once more before he moves to straddle your stomach. You look up at him, running your hands over his thighs and his hips, soaking in the atmosphere, attempting to memorize everything until you realize there’s at least part of it that can be easily registered.  
  
Luckily for you, the camera is still in your reach; he gives you a grin when you pick it up. You stroke just below of his belly button with a finger; your touch is enough to make him shiver and let out a murmur of approval, and there you go, one more photo, one more moment captured. He snatches the camera from your hands and takes a photo of you, two fingers in your open mouth, pink tongue running over them, the dirtiest look clouding your green eyes. He dives back and presses his mouth and tongue against your fingers; you groan and thrash underneath him as he half-kisses, half-helps you slicking your fingers.  
  
“Are you ready?” You ask, just to be sure, once he pulls back to position.  
  
“Fuck, yes.”  
  
You open him up as much as you can by scissoring your fingers; he’s been rubbing himself against your cock so much he’s already slick. You remove your fingers and position your cock against his entrance; there’s just a brief moment of calm before you push into him and his mouth falls open. You hold tight onto his hips, taking in the intense sensation of being inside him. Mark falls forward and you arch your hips into him, first tentatively, then once again, then once more, and you’re gasping for air as he begins riding you. It’s too much, the movement, the scent and the sounds of arousal, the rhythm as you two catch up; you hear more snapping sounds from the camera, but at this point you’re not focused on anything but sensation.  
  
You close your eyes, you’re getting near, and you hear his grunting. He comes first, fast and hard, hot come spilling all over yourself as he keeps moving. You buck and writhe through your own orgasm soon after, gripping his thighs, rambling in low tones to yourself. Opening your eyes again, you see him, hair disarranged and sweaty, lips red and bruised, breathing completely ragged. You think to yourself it might be the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen, and while you might not be thinking completely straight, you do know you want one last photo. He’s about to ease himself off your lap but you stop him.  
  
“Mark...”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Give me the camera.”  
  
He smiles devilishly.

  
***

  
Sometime around late December, you’re back home. Your holidays could be a bit more adventurous, but you’re not entirely complaining they are quiet; after a long year of excitement, it’s not that bad to have a few days for yourself away from everyone else, to begin gathering your energy for the upcoming season. You awaken later than usual, the room flooded with grey light, and groan to yourself.  
  
It’s cold outside, and coffee suddenly seems an attractive idea.  
  
You filter down the stairs, yawning, scratching your hair, and something catches your eye on the way to the kitchen, partially stuck underneath the front door. You shrug to yourself as you crouch down to reach out for it; you thought it was earlier, but it looks like the mailman has already been there. Oh well, it’s the holidays, you aren’t particularly mindful of time. You pull it out almost effortlessly, and curiosity quickly vanishes upon turning the letter around.  
  
Sealed and delivered straight from Australia, an otherwise nondescript white envelope is in your hands, your address scribbled in his handwriting.  
  
You fight the urge to rip it open; the last thing you want is to damage its contents. Carefully tearing open one of the sides, you discard it to come across, unsurprisingly, a new photo. You’re breathless for a moment; it’s from your encounter. It’s a bit off, but you see your bodies smashed together, skin on skin, your head tilted back and his lips pressed against your neck; he’s on top of you, your hands roaming over his back, his hands lost somewhere in the tight space remaining between your bodies.  
  
You shudder at the remembrance; you shudder at how obscenely enticing you both look.  
  
You turn the photo around.  
  
 _Here’s to more of this, and beyond._  
  
You smile to yourself.  
  
 _No doubt about that, Mark. No doubt about that._  
  


**-the end-**


End file.
